A Historical Fiction on John Adams and Trumbull’s Declaration Scene By Mariah Boland The spring of 1817 found Quincy still greening from winter’s retreat. Apple buds clung like pearls to dark branches, and the air carried the mingled scent of soil and sea from Massachusetts Bay. In the old farmhouse atop Penn’s Hill sat John Adams—former president, revolutionary, and now an aging lion of the Republic. His hair, once fire, lay white as the paper spread before him. He dipped quill to ink, but his hand trembled, less from age than from simmering irritation. A servant had delivered the parcel that morning: a letter from John Trumbull, painter of patriotic canvases, accompanied by a small rolled sketch—his depiction of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Trumbull wished for Adams’s approval before the large painting was completed for public display. Approval. Adams snorted to the empty room. “Approval—ha! He wants praise for a fiction fit for schoolboys!” He unroll...